


Not Much Of A Love Song

by anatomical_heart



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992), TARANTINO Quentin - Works
Genre: Implied Relationship, K-Billy's Super Sounds of the 70's Weekend, M/M, Mr. Pink Whining About Bullshit, Music-Inspired, Pre-film, Reading Between The Lines, homophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot of what Joe Cabot's guys were doing the night before one of the most infamous diamond heists this side of the Mississippi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Much Of A Love Song

They were in the back room of this bar owned by one of Nice Guy Eddie's guys. Which is to say it was owned by Nice Guy Eddie. Blue hadn't stayed past squaring up after burgers. Joe hadn't come out at all. But the rest of them were there, nursing drinks and cigarettes, feeling good. And why not? Friday night. Quarter to 11. Still early.

A mixture of groans and laughter rose up as a delicate guitar melody filtered in through the speakers, accompanied by a drumroll and the crack of Mr. Blonde breaking on his third game of 8-ball. He smirked around his cigarette, surveying the damage. Stripes it was. 

“Oh, c’mon, man, you have to fuckin’ be kidding me with this top-ten bullshit,” Mr. Pink whined, leaning back on his elbows, forgetting the notepad in his hand and the bets that Orange, Brown, and Nice Guy Eddie had riding on the game. White versus Blonde. 

_"Baby,”_ sang everyone but Mr. Pink, who just settled into his bitch face at the proceedings. 

Nice Guy Eddie, drunker-than-intended at this point in the evening and trying to pretend otherwise, sat down next to Pink. He continued crooning along with the song, off-key, leaning against Pink’s shoulder, “When I think about you...”

White, Orange, and Brown came back in, then, one of them making impressive harmony, “I think about _lo-o-ove,”_ more to rattle Pink’s cage than anything else. 

 “Fuck you,” Pink sneered and stood up, edging toward pissy.

“You better settle down, Mr. Pussy," Blonde's voice lifted up over the din and was not a suggestion. 

Orange looked over his shoulder at Blonde, interested.

Blonde worked the blue chalk over his cue, slow and methodical, leveling a _look_ at Pink, daring him to interrupt, lips twisted in dark amusement.

Pink waited for Blonde to finish. Mostly because he didn't trust men in bowling shirts and cowboy boots. Or someone who spoke slowly, smile looking like it was cut into his mouth with a razor. In his experience, guys like that could really fuck someone up for no reason at all. He’d seen it first hand at San Juan. So he waited.

Blonde continued to grind the chalk against the head of the pool cue for a drawn-out handful of heavy seconds, staring at Pink. Unblinking. Expression unreadable. Finally, he set the chalk down with purpose, and in one smooth motion, sent the 14 ball sailing into the left corner pocket. Looking up again, satisfied, he stated matter-of-factly, “I like Bad Company.”

Brown, Eddie, and White laughed as one. A punchline to an old joke passed around like porno mags, maybe.

Orange looked to White, and seeing him laughing, smiled, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.

Blonde had that knife-you smirk set in place as he spared one last look at Pink before scanning the table for his next shot. 

Pink grumbled as “Feel Like Makin’ Love” continued ramblin’ on: “I don't understand why people have to request the shittiest fucking songs when given the opportunity.”

“Hey, you don’t like it, why don't you call up K-Billy yourself and make a request, Dick Clark,” Brown tossed back at him as Blonde failed to sink the 10 ball.

“There’s an idea,” White asserted, lining up his shot, “Send out a love confession.”

Eddie snickered and downed his drink in one. 

Orange shook his head and cast his eyes to the floor, suppressing a grin around the lungful of smoke sucked in between his teeth; he was feeling loose. 

“C’mon, Pinky. Love song request. Let’s have it,” White prodded with a clean shot into the side pocket. 

Pink turned toward White, and taking only a moment to make up his mind, answered with a shrug that spoke to how obvious it was: “‘Superstar’.”

“Karen Carpenter,” White murmured, nodding in approval, the corners of his mouth turned down as he rounded the table to take another shot. 

“Her fucking voice, man,” Pink sighed and leaned against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

There was a quiet moment amongst them, filled only with hard guitar as Bad Company still felt like making love. 

“Not much of a love song, though,” Orange offered after the moment passed, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray.

Pink ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth as he took in Orange through slitted eyes; Freddy knew he touched some kind of nerve, but he didn't know what. 

“And at number two on the charts, uh... that’d qualify as top ten bullshit,” Brown added, that smug-as-fuck grin in place even Pink couldn't fucking stand.

“Okay, Orange,” Pink started up, crossing challenging arms over his chest. “What about you?”

Freddy hated the way Pink said “Orange”. _Ah-ringe._ He wondered if Pink argued everything, did whatever he could to make people not-like him. For all his yammering on and on about his professionalism bullshit, he could stand out like a sore fucking thumb if someone wanted to finger him for a crime. 

White leaned against a high-top table, sipping his drink, eyes lingering on Orange. 

Freddy brought another cigarette up to his lips, lit it, and took a thoughtful drag. Feeling White’s eyes on him - always on him - he stood and pulled on his leather jacket, exhaling a super cool stream of smoke. “‘Beast of Burden,’” he answered. And then, just for good measure, Freddy winked at Pink, turned his back, and strolled toward the exit.

 Surprised at the kid's remark, and pleased at Pink’s expression, everyone laughed.

Pink spluttered, thrown off-balance. Said something about how Orange should be Mr. Pink, since he was the _fucking faggot._

Orange lifted his right hand, flipping the bird at all of them, and tossed over his shoulder, “G’night, ladies.”

***

Larry waited in the car, Brown sitting next to him, chattering in-fucking-cessantly about Sandy Rogers’ “Fool for Love” and he couldn't really believe they were still talking about goddamn love songs. Running an irritated hand through his hair, White muttered around his cigarette, “Do you ever shut the fuck up, Mr. Shit?”

He promptly did and slipped on his Ray Ban sunglasses, looking out the passenger’s side window. _Fucking White._

Freddy finally emerged from his apartment building, and smiled at White, smoothing a hand down his tie and slicking a palm over his hair. Brown got out and slid into the back seat, letting Orange ride up front with White. Let the kid deal with the old man and the stick up his ass.

The drive was genial. Light ribbing and more comments about music selection. They had to get gas before heading to the diner. Brown volunteered to pump and get coffee; White asked for a pack of Chesterfields. 

Sliding back in next to Larry, Freddy made with the eyebrows; Larry smirked and killed the engine. 

K-Billy’s monotone, droning voice faded up as the fucking depressing acoustic-harmonica combo faded out. “That was ‘Heart of Gold’ by Neil Young for Cherry over in Manhattan Beach. Next up on this morning’s Wake-Up Request, ‘Beast of Burden’ by The Rolling Stones, with the dedication, ‘For Freddy.’”

There was a long moment, then, as Mick Jagger started to sing, where Freddy and Larry just looked at each other. Freddy lowered his sunglasses, trying to read Larry’s expression; Larry looked back and swallowed, but didn't take off his sunglasses. 

Freddy opened his mouth to speak, but Brown pulled open the passenger’s side door.

Orange whipped his head around. What was he going to say? _Excuse me, we were having a moment here?_ Fuck.

Brown tossed the pack of Chesterfields at White and asked, “Hey, you got change for a fifty? Fucking guy says he doesn't take anything bigger'n a twenty.”

Freddy looked back at White. “I got it.” Sliding out of the car, past Brown, he slipped his sunglasses back on and pulled the wad of cash from his inside jacket pocket, trying to talk the tremble out of his goddamn fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the "Reservoir Dogs" Kink Meme on Dreamwidth. Since then, I dusted it off and tweaked it a little. 
> 
> Note: This was originally titled "Not Too Blind To See." I realize this was casually ableist, and am sorry. I have since re-titled.


End file.
